Soheil Solitarius
by karismatics
Summary: Someone once told me that I was meant for a different time. I didn't think they meant it literally. Modern Assassin OC.
1. Prologue

**This is the sort of thing that happens when I get bored during the holidays. I've had the idea for this bouncing around in my head for, like, a year and a half now, and I wrote part of it back then, but then stopped and never went back to it, which is pretty unfortunate. I got to making some jokes with a friend of mine the other day, and she made some sort of comment along the lines of "Man, I wish that was in a fic," and I told her I would make it happen. So I did.**

**Anyway, you can do that thing where you rate and review if you want to, but I'm not going to, like, plead on my hands and knees for it - mostly because this is just for fun and I'm going to keep it going no matter what happens. So. I don't have the profanity filter on, so feel free to use that at your own discretion, just don't get, like, horrendously violent and aggressive because that's just rude and horrible.**

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><p>PROLOGUE<p>

- A DIFFERENT TIME -

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><p>"You were meant for a different time," he told me once.<p>

It was late. The streets outside were beginning to quiet and still, and an echoing silence began to take the place of the bustling noise that had filled the afternoon. Houses began to grow dim. In the distance, the moon hung high over the horizon, the curves and sharp points of its waxing stage cutting through the night like a knife. Venezia was falling asleep, but I was wide awake.

We were in a safe house. The walls were covered in a coat of chipping red paint that had once been vibrant, but had long lost its life. A threadbare rug was tossed over the rotting wooden floorboards. Two beds stood at opposite sides of the room, each covered in identical bedspreads and in desperate need of washing. The room was cold and damp. There were candles placed throughout the room, tinging the space in shades of gold and casting shadows on the walls.

The building was old and worn, but stood firm still. It was built right alongside one of the canals, and the water lapped at its stone foundation with calming repetition. _One...Two...Three...Four..._I counted the waves, letting the constant beat reassure me and distract me from the pain that was shooting down the length of my arm.

"You were meant for a different time," He said. The words were quiet and whispered, hushed like a secret that was never meant to be shared. Her voice was as soft as his lips. I thought about kissing his then, but another sharp stab of pain dissuaded me.

_One...Two...Three...Four..._

I sat at the edge of one of the beds, clutching at the mattress with a grip strong enough to make the metal springs groan in protest. I was shirtless. A thin sheen of sweat coated the surface of my skin, leaving it slick. My skin gleamed amber in the candlelight. I could feel hot blood running down the skin of my arm, twisting back and forth like a snake.

He sat beside me, eyebrows knit together in concentration. His green eyes were focused and determined, the candlelight reflected in his irises. A pair of metal pliers was in his hands. he used them to dig through the flesh of my shoulder, pushing through sinew and tissue as he searched for the bullet that had burrowed in my muscles.

"What do you mean?" I asked him, voice tight and strained.

He didn't answer me for a long while, not until after he managed to pull the slug out of my shoulder, disinfect the wound, and stitch it closed with a length of fishing line. When he finally spoke again, his voice was soft and featherlight.

"You never seemed real," he explained as he wrapped my shoulder in a layer of gauze bandaging. "You always seemed out of place, like you stepped out of a masterpiece in an art museum or as if you were raised in some ancient century. Like I said earlier, you were meant for a different time,"

When I laid down to sleep that night, cradled in his arms, I thought about what he said. I laid awake for hours, just thinking. The throbbing in my shoulder was making it hard to sleep, anyway, and in all those hours of thinking, I never thought that he had meant what he said to be taken literally.


	2. Chapter One

**Alright, first actual chapter. Huzzah! The introduction to this one isn't going to be too extravagant or detailed because it's six in the morning and I haven't gone to sleep yet and I have to spend all day with obscure relatives. Super excited. Oh, yeah. Gonna pretend like I know what I'm doing with my life and talk to a bunch of people I only know on the vaguest of terms and see at most twice a year. Awesome.**

**Anyway, my sarcasm aside, I hope you enjoy. This chapter and the next one are going to be about her interacting with all the modern assassins, which was pretty fun to write. These two chapters are also going to lead up to when things actually start to happen, so just bear with me here because they're actually kind of, sort of important.**

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><p>CHAPTER ONE<p>

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><p>The building I'm sitting in is hot and humid - the result of the summer heat and a lack of centralized air conditioning. This building, like all the others in this part of town, is too old and outdated to be brought up to modern building and housing standards. All the buildings here are made from stone. They had once been painted in beautiful, vivid colors, but centuries of sun exposure and weathering have left the paint dull and chipping.<p>

I'm kneeling at a window. My skin is coated in a thin sheen of sweat. The silver ring around my finger glints in the hot sunlight, sparking like a flame. There's a sniper rifle in my arms, the body propped against the window sill with the stock pressed against the white star-shaped bullet scar on my shoulder. The trigger waits patiently beneath my index finger. I keep an eye against the scope, watching a particular area with a gaze honed by years of practice.

Venezia is wide awake. The streets outside are filled to the brim with sunburned, pale-skinned tourists who all seem to possess the same predisposition to photographing everything that they see. Locals sell their wares on the street corners, using the collective ignorance of the tourists to their advantage by charging them high prices for low quality goods. Thieves and pickpockets make quick work of the tourists, who walk with their wallets in their back pockets. They're easy pickings.

I ignore the bustle, blocking out the sounds of laughter and shouting to the best of my ability, and focus on my target. I watch him through the scope of my sniper rifle. He is meandering and wandering about in a plaza a few blocks away, licking away at an ice cream cone and taking in the scenery. He's dressed in civilian clothing - khaki pants and a white button up shirt. I watch as he sends smiles to the shopkeepers, his posture relaxed and his smile content and serene.

I want him dead.

He has a lot of nerve walking out in the open like he is, waltzing around in public like he and his allies have already won the war. The very sight of him looking so serene and content puts my teeth on edge. He ought to be sitting in his house with the doors barricaded and his windows shuttered, cowering in a corner and waiting for death to find him, but he isn't. His arrogance is insulting. He should be making funeral arrangements, not eating ice cream. It's like he's issuing a challenge, and I'll be damned if I don't take it up and make it my own.

I glare at him through the scope, eyes narrowed. I watch as he crosses the plaza, his shoulders relaxed and his steps content and his smile disgustingly serene. He takes a seat at a stone bench, stepping right into my crosshairs and zipping up his own body bag with the action.

"_Arrivederci, _asshole," I whisper under my breath, smirking.

Then I pull the trigger.

A bullet shoots out of the barrel of the gun with a loud bang, whistling as it cuts through the air with deadly precision. The recoil of the shot sends the stock of my gun slamming into my shoulder. I hardly feel it. Through the scope, I see my bullet meet its mark, piercing the man's skull right in between his eyes. His blood splatters on the wall behind him, painting the stone with crimson red.

The crowd bursts into a cacophony of screams. Tourists and merchants and thieves alike all run from the scene, stirring up a contagious commotion that spreads through the surrounding blocks. The public display gives me a sense of pride. That'll teach them to underestimate us.

I rise up from my kneeling position. My knees and shoulders are sore from the hours of scouting and waiting. I take a moment to stretch before dismantling my gun and stowing it away in my backpack, wincing as I sling the bag over one of my stiff shoulders. I'm gonna need a massage or something when I get back to base. A couple drinks, too.

Filled with a practiced sense of accomplishment, I exit the abandoned building, stepping onto the street outside. The panic caused by my successful assassination hasn't reached this street yet. Here, it's business as usual. Vendors continue to call out their wares, stringing together pretty words in hopes of enticing some customers over. Civilians, unaware, walk up and down the street, traveling in packs and sticking close together like flocks of sheep.

I slip seamlessly into one of these groups. The other people hardly seem to notice me, and none of them comment on my sudden appearance, though a couple of them do cast me disdainful looks. I ignore them, but idly wonder what they would do if they knew I had a military-standard sniper rifle in my backpack. Probably panic. People are good at that.

I stay with the group for a few blocks, after which I break away from the crowds and slip down a darkened alleyway. Plastic garbage bags are piled against the walls, filling the space with the stench of rotting food, which isn't so horrible considering that the canals fill the city with the smell of sewage. It's a good thing this place is so steeped in culture and history otherwise it would be a total train wreck.

I stick with the alleyways until I reach my destination - a grouping of apartments housing a pretty narrow demographic of infirmed and elderly individuals. Whenever I have an assignment in Venezia, I like to park my motorcycle near here. It's a pretty low-risk area, so I don't have to worry about some asshole stealing my bike while I'm trying to focus on committing murder. The elderly being kind and generous with their baked goods is just an added bonus.

Unfortunately for me, none of the nice elderly people are outside, so I have no one to offer me some sweets to eat, which is quite the let down because I haven't eaten since early this morning. I suppose it's my own fault. I did shoot a man in the head not twenty minutes from their neighborhood. They're all probably inside, watching their televisions or listening to their radios, going on about how the world has lost its mind.

Well, they're not wrong.

I locate my motorcycle with ease; it's not hard to spot the smooth metal contraption amidst the lines of houses and their chipping paint. As I'm swinging my leg over the seat, I hear a screech. I look up to the sky and see an eagle circling overhead, hunting for its next meal. I smile at the sight.

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><p>I've been traveling a lot lately, criss crossing back and forth across the country and leaving corpses in my wake. In the past two weeks alone, I've been to Napoli, Firenze, Milano, Verona, Forli, Messina, and Venezia, dropping numerous bodies in each city. Roma is home to me, but I am hardly ever there. I return there to report to my accomplices when my assignments elsewhere have been completed, and to receive further information. I have very little leisure time, and all that time is spent training or putting our fallen to rest.<p>

The Brotherhood has been losing in a bad way lately. There's no point in denying it. The Templars have us on the defensive, and it's hard to just maintain our presence in the world, let alone make the difference we once did. Our bases are attacked and exposed on the daily; Our means and lines of international communication have been hacked into; Our informants and suppliers are turning against us, supplying information to our enemies; Our Brothers and Sisters are perishing on the regular.

We're a dying breed.

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><p>It's late now, the sky painted black.<p>

The road I'm driving down is in desperate need of some construction work. Huge rifts have broken through the black asphalt, breaking through the rock-hard substance like canyons through the earth. Huge, age-old trees line the street, their roots creeping in ready to reclaim the land that was once theirs. The headlights mounted on the front of my motorcycle cut through the night, exposing ravines and breaks in the pavement. I have to swerve to avoid them.

The ride between Venezia and Roma is a five and a half hour journey, taking me through abandoned countryside and small towns. I've been on the road for three hours now, which leaves another two until I'm home. The trips in between have always made me nervous. A lot can happen in just a couple hours, and if something terrible were to happen - if there was an attack nearby, or if someone was killed - I wouldn't know about it until it was too late.

It's approaching ten o'clock when I hear the low gasoline bell ring. I let out a groan. I didn't want to stop on the trip - the less I stop, the sooner I'll be home - but now I'll have to. On the bright side, now I'll have an excuse to pick up something to drink and have a couple snacks since I'll be stopping anyway.

Twenty minutes later, I pull into the empty parking lot belonging to quite the questionable looking gas station. Fluorescent bulbs bathe the area in a sickly blue-green light. The gas pumps look like they haven't been used since the late eighties, covered in rust and lacking the ability to complete card transactions. I pump my gas as quickly as I can, but it's a struggle. The handle on the pump gets stuck and gives me a hard time, squealing horrifically when I finally manage to jar it loose.

As I'm waiting rather impatiently for my gas tank to fill up, I feel my cell phone vibrate in my jacket pocket. I pull it out with one hand, keeping the other one on the gas pump. The caller ID flashes across the touch screen, displaying the name "LUCY STILLMAN" in bright red letters. I answer the call.

"Yeah?" I ask. "Something happen?"

"_What," _Lucy replies, a smile in her voice. "_Do I need a reason to call you now?"_

"Only when we're at war," I respond, a smile of my own pull at the corners of my lips. "How's your latest pet project?"

Lucy has been a good friend of mine for many years now. I first met her when I was twelve - shortly after my official inauguration into the Brotherhood. She was in Roma gathering some information, I was recovering from the death of my father, and we both happened to be staying at _La Volpe Addormentata. _We both happened to be in need of a drink or two, and got to talking over a few glasses of wine. The rest was history.

Lucy makes a noise of contemplation. "_It could be better," _She replies.

The gas pump clicks off, signalling that my tank is filled. "What do you need?" I ask her, putting the gas nozzle back into it's slot on the pump and then screwing the cap back onto my gas tank.

Lucy has been working on a potentially epic assignment for a while now. She managed to infiltrate the Templar ranks - which is quite the feat in itself - and then weaseled her way into the science division, which put her in the perfect position to provide us with valuable information. The intel that she managed to procure saved a lot of lives - mine included.

In addition to that, she also devised a plan involving the genetic memory test subjects. A couple weeks ago, she broke the current subject out of the science wing and brought him to her team of geniuses - Rebecca Crane, who is a bit too flippant for my liking, and Shaun Hastings, who is a world champion asshole - to turn the subject into some sort of super weapon meant to be the salvation of us all or whatever. I think the whole thing is a bit far-fetched, but with the way things have been lately, I'm willing to try just about anything to get the upper hand in this war.

"_We're on our way to Italy,"_ Lucy begins. I can hear people talking in the background, their voices irritated, like they're bickering about something. Behind that, I hear cars - honking and screeching and the constant thrum of wheels on pavement. "_We could use some help,"_

"What are you doing all the way out here?" I question, walking towards the convenience store and stepping in through the front door. The whole building smells like cleaning products, though it is obvious that none of them are working. The white floor tiles are tinged yellow with grime and dirt. The man behind the cash register is filthy, too, his clothes disheveled and stained and his hair in desperate need of a shower. He looks me over suspiciously, but I silence his internal questions with a withering glare. "It's dangerous here. We've hardly any territory left,"

"_I know,"_ Lucy says, sounding dismayed. I can't blame her. "_But we have to move. Abstergo found our last hideout, and the only place that makes sense for us to go to is the Auditore Villa."_

"You're going to the Villa?" I ask, a bit surprised. It's true that Monteriggioni is the safest place for them, but that's only because the place is borderline desolate. There's nothing there. A few families still call it home, and it's in relatively good shape, but it's not the stronghold that it once was and there certainly aren't going to be any battles fought for it.

"_Yeah,"_ Lucy answers. "_We're on our way there now. We should be there in a couple days - assuming that things actually go to plan, that is."_

"You want me to get some supplies, then?" I ask her, perusing the aisles for something to snack on that isn't three months past its expiration date. "I have to meet up with Basilio as it is. I might as well pick some things up for you if you need them,"

"That would be great," Lucy replies.

"It's no problem," I tell her, picking up a pack of cream-filled pastry treats and a bag of potato chips. "Basilio loves me. I get discounts, too, so it would be cheaper to have me pick it all up anyway. What do you need?"

"_Um, we need-" _Lucy breaks off mid-sentence. I can hear someone babbling on in the background, the voice sounding enthusiastic and excitable, even though I cannot make out the words. Rebecca, probably. "_We need industrial-grade extension cords, a device to scramble cell phone signals, a few electrical transponders, oh, and snacks,"_

I smile at that last request. "Snacks, huh?"

"_Rebecca's request, not mine."_

"Consider it done," I reply. "I'll have it waiting when you get there,"

"_You won't be there?"_

I swipe a lukewarm bottle of soda out of one of the coolers in the back and then carry all of my purchases up to the front counter, spreading them out in front of the cashier. The man gives me another strange look. I silence this one, too, with a glare - one that causes him to avert his eyes. He ring up my purchases - the total coming up to around twelve euros. I pull a hundred out of my wallet and toss it unceremoniously on the counter, telling him to keep the change as I scoop up my purchases and walk out the door.

"No," I answer, pulling open my bag of chips. "I would be there if I could, but I can't. I've been busier than Death the past six months."

"_That bad, huh?" _Lucy asks, sounding grim.

"Worse than bad," I reply, popping a chip into my mouth. "We're losing in a bad way, Lucy. I had another contract today, and the bastard was walking out in public, smiling like he'd never seen the sun before. He didn't have a single guard with him. Not one,"

"_He clearly never had to deal with you," _Lucy tells me.

That brings another smirk to my lips. "And he never will again,"


	3. Chapter Two

**So, I was playing AC2 last night, because what else am I supposed to do at two in the morning the day of a family function? Anyway, the story is someone got mad at me (big surprise), I ended up falling off a roof (slightly bigger surprised because that doesn't normally happen), and landed next to a group of courtesans - one of whom thought it would be a wonderful idea to make a comment about how "tight and lovely" my butt is. Okay, first of all, I've never even heard them say that before. Second of all, that is NOT the proper reaction you should have when a man covered in blood drops from the sky and lands next to you. Third of all, why "lovely?" I have never heard a butt be described as "lovely" before, and the adjective usage is both weirdly inappropriate and wildly entertaining. I laughed so hard my mother came out of her bedroom to ask what was wrong with me, so I told her what happened and then she started laughing too, and the whole situation was an amusement-caused disaster. It was great.**

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><p>CHAPTER TWO<p>

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><p>It's nearing one in the morning when I pull into Roma. The streets are still filled to the brim with people, though this populace is mostly locals looking to have some fun without having to bump into all sorts of tourists. I navigate my way to the edge of town, leaving the noise behind.<p>

_La Volpe Addormentata _sits on the fringes of town, hidden away in the shadows of the city. The building sits on its original foundations, most of the first floor still sporting the original floorboards and the original stone walls. The rest of the building, however, has been renovated over the years. It still maintains a strange vintage charm, though no one would know it since hardly anyone ever comes this far out from the city center.

I park my motorcycle out in the front. The absence of its constant purring leaves the night sounding hollow and empty, like a grave. I shiver in the cold. I swing my bag back over my shoulder, relieved to find that my muscles aren't quite as sore as they had been earlier. I take one last deep breath, breathing in the night, and head inside.

The Inn is relatively empty. The only people who stay here are comrades, and those numbers are dwindling down in the smaller double-digits. A group of surly, sturdily-built men sits at a table in the corner, playing a card game. There are three people sitting at the bar, drinking down pints of beer and taking the occasional shot of something harder. The man behind the counter is washing a glass and he nods at me when I walk through the door.

"Vittoria," He says, sounding downtrodden. "Welcome back,"

I raise an eyebrow at him, taking a seat at the bar and letting my bag slip down to the floor beside my feet. "You sound pleasant, Volpe," I note drily. "What's happened?"

There has always been a Volpe. Though they're all individuals in their own rights, they all bear the same title, and no one has ever known their real names. This particular Fox is a man in his mid-thirties. He has a thin, angular build and the bone structure to match. His black hair is tinged grey along his hairline, making him look older than he is. Dark shadows linger in the hollows of his eyes, brought on by years upon years of continued sleep deprivation and a consistent lack of healthy sleeping patterns.

Volpe lets out a humorless chuckle. "What hasn't happened?" He questions in return, turning around to pour me a drink.

"You know," I begin. "As endearing as your secrecy and vague statements are, I really would appreciate knowing what it is that's got you in such a mood,"

Volpe sighs, placing a glass of red wine on the counter in front of me. "We lost men at Napoli today," He answers. "The casualties were extensive,"

"How many?" I ask, sipping at my drink.

"Six," Volpe answers, giving me a measured look. I curse under my breath at the news. A victory like that would certainly explain why my target was so smug and arrogant. "I hope you have better news to share with me."

"I do," I reply. "Do you seriously think I would be sitting here if the bastard was still alive? It's nice to know you think so highly of me, Volpe."

Volpe lets out another sigh. "Things are rough right now. You know that. I just had to make sure that things went well."

I snicker and take a swig of my drink. "Things went better than well," I say. "It was probably the easiest thing I've done in six months. The asshole didn't have a clue. He was walking through Venezia like he owned the place. He didn't even have a security detail,"

"I can't imagine you took that well,"

"Oh, I assure you, I didn't," I reply. "Though, in my defense, his brains would've been splattered all over the pavement whether or not I found his lack of security detail to be infuriating."

"What about that American girl? How is she managing?" Volpe asks, going back to washing the pint glasses. "Have you heard from her recently?"

"Yeah, I talked to her a bit earlier," I answer. "Their hideout is as good as gone. I guess they'll be setting up shop out at the Villa. She asked me to pick some supplies up. You know, to make the place hospitable."

"They'll be staying at Monteriggioni?" Volpe questions, raising an eyebrow in an incredulous way. "That's a bit risky,"

"It's a better bet than them staying here," I remind him. "We're sleeping in the heart of the war, Volpe. At least there they'll be away from the fighting."

"Well," Volpe begins. "I hope you're just as eager to work as they are, because you already have contracts lined up around the block,"

I send him a disbelieving look. "Already? Volpe, I just got back!"

"Oh, hush," He tells me. "You don't have to leave immediately."

I let out a groan. "Alright, give it to me, then,"

Volpe smirks at my reaction. Asshole. "You aren't going to like it,"

"Volpe," I begin. "I'm going to like it a lot less if you keep on beating around the bush. In fact, my dislike for it is going to increase in direct proportion with how long it takes you to tell me,"

"As you wish, but don't shoot the messenger," He replies. "It seems as though the Templars have gotten their hands on The Serpent,"

The room quiets the moment the words fall from his mouth. The men playing cards slow their movements - dealing out cards without looking at them, their gazes surreptitiously cast my direction. The others at the bar avert their eyes, looking at their drinks with a brand new interest. They all sit waiting with baited breath, braced for the inevitable explosion.

And, oh, does it come. As soon as my brain has managed to comprehend the words, I can feel rage seeping into the hollow spaces of my chest.

"What the fuck do you mean?" I demand, voice rising. I slam my hands down on the counter and stand up from my chair. The action causes my glass of wine to tip over, the red alcohol spilling over the counter and spreading like shed blood.

"Just what I said_," _Volpe answers. "The Templars have The Serpent. I have received word that it is going to be changing hands this weekend in Firenze. Knowing them, this might be the only chance we get to retrieve it. I assume by your reaction you're willing to take on the task?"

I give him a cold look. "I'll see you this weekend," I reply, pulling my bag over my shoulder and tugging my jacket hood up. I turn and walk to the door, shooting the men playing cards a glare and stepping back out into the cool night.

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><p>The Serpent - an invaluable relic cast in the purest gold, a precious bangle coiled into the shape of a poisonous snake with jaws primed to strike. It is meant to be worn on the arm, where strong muscle meets the shoulder bone, and it was meant to be won by only one woman and one woman alone.<p>

Alphard the Knowledgeable, Alphard the All-Knowing, Alphard the First Female Assassin, Alphard the Enlightened. She wore The Serpent on her arm and it whispered secret knowledge in her ear. She rose to power and prominence in the Middle East during the Middle Ages, when the word was in political and religious turmoil. She fought on the battlefields of war, a sword in hand. She filled the hallowed halls of Masyaf Castle with collections and compilations of sciences not discussed in recorded history until centuries later.

She rests there in the earth beneath the castle, her skeleton preserved in a tomb built in shimmering white stones. Her corpse lays in a casket, wrapped in exquisite silks and decorated in expensive jewels given to her by nobles the world over. The Serpent, too, laid with her there, and was meant to remain there with her-

-But that is no longer the case.

As I drive to meet with Basilio, I try to come to terms with this reality, with how our eternal enemies thought that they had the right to march on our lands, rob the grave of the woman hailed as one of the most influential assassins in all of history, and then snatch one of her most prized possessions right off of her corpse.

The thought makes me sick to my stomach.

I pull up in front of the brickworks feeling nauseous and furious and altogether disgusted. I sit there on my motorcycle for a few minutes, taking deep breaths in an attempt to cool the flames of my rage and settle the churning in my stomach. It doesn't work. I give up when I realize that the only thing that could possibly ease my ailment is a cold, dead heart in my hand - preferably the heart of whatever bastard put his slimy hands all over one of our most valued relics.

The brickworks, like the inn, is on the edge of the city. The large, metal warehouse used to be, as its name suggests, a brickworks where the bricks used in new houses and buildings were made. It went bankrupt three decades ago, and since then, Basilio has turned it into the hub at the center of his business - the axle that lets the proverbial wheel keep turning.

I walk up to the door out in back and knock on it. The words "ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE" are spray painted across the silver metal. Even here outside, I can hear the commotion inside. People are cheering and hollering, and the bass line to a hyped up rock song thumps through the ground.

A man opens up the door, the sliding chain lock pulled tight. The man appraises me through the gap in between the door and its frame, looking me up and down. I hold up my hand, flashing the ring on my finger with a smirk. The man undoes the chain and then holds the door open for me, muttering something under his breath as I pass by him.

The door opens into dim hallway illuminated by blood red overhead lights. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a mist. Underneath the scents of tobacco and nicotine, I pick up on the strong smell of hard liquor. I taste the alcohol on my tongue. My stomach twists sickeningly at the scent, making me regret that I had those gas station snacks earlier.

I tuck my hands into my jacket pockets, and walk down the hallway until I reach the huge, expansive room that makes up the majority of the warehouse.

Merchants of the illegal sort have set up shop along the edges of the room, selling their wares to customers that are equally as illegal. Military-grade weapons are pitched like home security devices. Illegal narcotics and hallucinogens exchange hands like simple party favors, sending their buyers into states of hazed ecstasy.

A cheering and hollering crowd is gathered in the center of the room, pumping their fists and yelling out profanity with their hands cupped around their mouths. Two people move in the center of the crowd, circling each other. Their hands and ankles are wrapped in white medical tape, the sweat on their backs glistening beneath the hot spot lights that hang from the ceiling.

I see Basilio there on the edge of the crowd, looking exhilarated in a way that only he can manage. I make my way over to him, slinking in between the tightly packed bodies with my eyes fixed on the fight. Basilio isn't surprised to see me. He pulls me into a bone-crushing hug that did, actually, manage to break one of my rib bones once.

"Vittoria!" He yells over the cacophony. "I'm happy to see you!"

"Yeah, I can see that!" I reply. "You got a minute? I need to talk business!"

"Yes, absolutely!" He tells me. "Follow me!"

Basilio leads me through the crowd, parting sweaty bodies like they're the sea and he's leading me to salvation. He's much larger than I am, standing at over six feet tall with broad shoulders and biceps that could probably crack my skull open like an egg. When I was younger, I used to swing on his arms like they were monkey bars. I could probably still manage it - I haven't grown a whole lot since then.

Basilio leads me back into a back storage room. Dusty cardboard boxes line the walls in leaning towers, their tops scraping the ceiling, and a single bulb serves to illuminate the room, swinging from the ceiling on exposed cords. I wonder absentmindedly if Basilio is aware that having exposed electrical wires in a room filled with highly flammable cardboard boxes is a safety hazard. Then I realize that even if he was aware, he wouldn't care.

"So," Basilio says, closing the door behind us. Even with the door closed, I can still hear the rioting and the cheering, the thumping bass pulsing through the thick soles of my shoes. "What can I help you with tonight, _cara mia?"_

"Supplies," I respond. "I need industrial extension cords, ammunition, a device to scramble cell signals, and some electrical transponders."

"Well, that's quite the varied list," Basilio comments, sounding amused. "Why in the world do you need electrical transponders and extension cords?"

"It's a favor for a friend," I answer.

"Well, I most certainly can get them," He tells me, opening up the door and holding it ajar for me to pass through. "When do you need everything by?"

Basilio and I step back out into the fray, stepping past a stumbling, drunk couple who wear huge smiles on their faces. We stand in between two shops - one selling drugs and the other selling guns. The throngs of shoppers move around us, like a rock splitting a river right down the middle; a few people give us glares, but do not comment.

"As soon as possible," I say. "I have a contract I need to start working on,"

"Where are you going this time?"

"Firenze," I answer, shuffling my feet against the concrete floor. "The Templars have taken The Serpent and I intend to retrieve it before they can make it their own,"

Basilio's face flushes red with rage. He curses out long strings of profanity, voice loud enough to make the people around us look at him in both concern and confusion. I realize, in futile retrospect, that telling a man with breathtaking anger management issues that his mortal enemies have raided the tomb of one of his most respected and valued comrades probably wasn't the smartest decision I have ever made.

"Those bastards!" Basilio yells, clenching and unclenching his fists. He begins pacing back and forth angrily, stomping across the concrete with his combat boots. I half-expect the ground to split and crack open beneath him. He rounds on me, taking me by my shoulders and holding me tight enough that I'm certain his fingers are going to leave bruises. "You kill them all, you hear me, _cara mia? _Kill them, and bring back what is ours,"

I look at him, taking in the rage that shimmers in his brown irises. I tighten my jaw in determination and nod at his request, letting my frazzled nerves harden into tough steel. "I will,"


	4. Chapter Three

**I had the weirdest dream last night, and it may or may not have involved Rocket Raccoon, The Hunger Games, and a horde of zombies. I'm still trying to make sense of it, but I can tell you this - it was completely awesome and I wish I could have it again.**

* * *

><p>CHAPTER THREE<p>

* * *

><p>Basilio got me my requested supplies in record time, muttering curses and expletives the whole time. With my new goods in hand, I immediately set out to Monteriggioni, determined to get to work on my assignment in Firenze.<p>

I traveled through the underground tunnel system until I reached the hall beneath the Villa. There, I quickly paid my respects to the carved statues that lined the walls, pressing lingering kisses to their rock hard knuckles. That night, I slept on broken tiles and exposed dirt, the statues standing watch with their stone cold gazes and hands poised to kill. My sleep was restless, my hands twitching at my sides and my dreams permeated with screams and crimson red blood.

I awoke early in the morning, muscles aching and head throbbing. I set the supplies Lucy had requested on the tiles at the carved feet of Altair - the greatest of us all, and the reason we have survived as long as we have. I lingered there for a few moments, taking in the sight of him, before departing.

I spent the next two days meeting with trusted contacts spread throughout Firenze, gathering information and then using it to construct an appropriate action plan. I then went on to decide on the details. I determined the best escape routes, the best intimidation tactics, and the best building to perch on to survey the scene.

I sit there now, waiting to strike.

The building I have claimed as my roost is older, standing at only a couple stories and serving as an excellent vantage point. Paneled shutters are hinged to the windows. The stone walls are chipping, weathered rough by the centuries. The red shingles beneath me have been bleached dull by the sun's rays, hot to the touch and caked with dust.

Firenze is alive beneath my gaze, vibrant with movement and color. People move up and down the wide cobblestone streets, talking amongst themselves and perusing the shops that line the streets. Women duck their heads close together, whispering in each others ears. Their voices are carried on the breeze, their words hushed and hurried, like they're telling secrets.

The Santa Maria del Fiore rises up over the surrounding buildings, reaching up to touch the sky with its elegant arches and steeples grasping at the air like outstretched hands. A large plaza is spread out beneath, wrapping around the cathedral. Locals cross through the space, using it only as a means to an end. Tourists stop and stare, snapping pictures to commemorate the occasion and preserve the memory.

But my target is not among them.

I let out a long sigh, eyes scanning through the crowd once again. I'm growing impatient and restless. I'm aching to do something, my toes tapping against the shingles and my hands twitching anxiously at my sides. I occupy my hands by twisting at my silver ring. The metal is smooth beneath the rough and calloused flesh of my fingertips, and it glints in the sun like a sharpened blade. An inscription is carved into its inside, the words curving with the metal. I can feel the engraving against my scarred skin, the words echoing in my skull like a ghost.

_Laa shay'a waqi'un mutlaq bale kouloun moumkin._

Nothing is true, everything is permitted.

* * *

><p>It's growing dark now. The sky is painted a deep blue color and clouds roll across the vast expanse like waves on the ocean. The air is cooler now that the sun has gone. A breeze whistles through the streets, caressing my skin and whispering secrets in my ear. I shiver.<p>

Firenze is cast in black shadows. Windows burst into light, cutting through the darkness like candles in the night. The black iron lampposts the line the cobblestone streets pop alive, illuminating the streets and throwing dark shadows into the narrow alleyways. The people in the streets slip their arms into their jackets, louder in the night than they ever were in the day. Darkness brings out the truth in people, and I'm at home in it.

I cast my gaze up to the sky. The clouds hang low, threatening to collapse in on themselves at any given moment. The sky looks like an ocean - vast and blue, gorgeous and treacherous. I imagine swimming through the sky, diving into the clouds and letting the wind take me away like an ocean current.

Something changes then. Something inside my chest snaps and splinters, cracking through my muscles like a lightning strike. I lose my breath, leaving my lungs hollow and empty. My heart seizes up.

I look back down into the plaza, eyes scanning through the crowds. Sure enough, I spy my target loitering on the cathedral steps, his eyes cast down to the ground and his knees shaking. He looks positively panicked. His demeanor gives me insight. He wouldn't be so scared normally, which means that my enemies know to expect resistance.

I snicker. Oh, resistance is exactly what they're going to get.

* * *

><p>I slink through the streets without a sound, my boots silent like a grave. I stick to the darkened alleyways, disappearing into the shadows and letting them take me into their cold embrace. The silver ring has gone cold against my skin. My handguns weigh down my shoes, their metal bodies heavy like a ball and chain tethering me to my eternal sentence - a sentence I carry out with a smile on my lips.<p>

I sneak into the plaza without incident. I take a seat on a stone bench, sitting down next to a middle-aged man with a bedraggled look about him. He casts me a curious look. I send him a charming look, which causes him to avert his gaze, turning his attention to the ground. My endearing smile twists into a smirk. I cross one leg over the other and lean my back against the wall behind me, pretending to be busy on my cell phone.

I have an excellent view here. My target stands on the steps, looking around the plaza anxiously. I take great pleasure in the state he's in, the smirk on my lips growing considerably. A nervous sweat has broken out along his brow line, and his hands are trembling at his sides, shaking and spasming uncontrollably. My hands, too, are shaking, but for an entirely different reason.

I would kill him now - I'm dying to - but I need to make sure that he has the relic with him, that this isn't some act to get me to come out into the open. So I stay my hands and I wait.

I'm much more impatient now than I had been earlier. Then, I was resigned to waiting it out, having accepted that I might end up waiting all through the night. It's different now. Now, my target is within shooting range. Now, I can almost smell the blood on the breeze, can hear the ghost of a gunshot ricocheting in my ears.

I lick my lips in anticipation.

I don't have to wait long. Not ten minutes later, there's another cracking and splintering in my chest, one that sends my heart bouncing around in my ribcage like a stray bullet. I suppress a grin.

A sharp dressed man steps into the plaza with his head held high. His shoulders are broad and his bearing is proud, the smirk on his lips one laced with arrogance and contempt. He crosses the plaza, walking right past me with sure steps and a cocksure swagger. Two men flank him, following in his wake.

The proud man walks up to the anxious man, his arms open wide. "Robert!" The proud man says to the anxious man, who is still staring intently at the ground beneath his shoes. "It's a pleasure to see you!"

Robert the Anxious Man mutters something unintelligible under his breath, and, though I cannot hear it, the proud man obviously can because he bursts out into laughter. I grumble a bit, wishing I had heard the exchange.

"Oh, Robert!" The proud man says between chuckles. "You always were a strange one, weren't you? It's why I always liked you!" His laughter dies down, then. He leans in towards the anxious man and begins to whisper in his ear. I have to strain my ears to hear the words said. "You have it, don't you? Our boss will be very pleased with you,"

Robert nods, and begins to rummage in his pocket. I get the distinct impression that he's been threatened or blackmailed into all this nonsense. He pulls a small black bag out, the velvet material weighted down at the bottom. Something inside me turns at the sight, like a blade twisting in an open wound.

That's all the assurance I need.

I stand up and begin making my way across the plaza, keeping my head lowered and my hands in my pockets. When I'm a short distance away, I pull a gun out and ready it. I aim it. I shoot it.

The gunshot echoes through the plaza, and a strange, ringing silence creeps in. Everyone is still and silent as the reality sets in. The bodyguard I had been aiming at drops to his knees and then collapses onto the ground, blood staining his crisp white shirt. His blood spreads over the cobblestones, running like rivers in the spaces between.

Then the screaming comes. The plaza is consumed in chaos and people begin running every which way, running to escape the scene. I remain behind, standing still as the bodies move around me.

The remaining bodyguard pulls his sidearm out and moves to aim it at me, but I send a bullet into his skull before he even has the chance to take the shot. He, too, crumples to the stones. The proud man and the anxious man both stare at the bloody corpse in shock, their jaws slack and expressions disgusted. I make my way towards them, smoking gun hanging at my side.

"You little bitch," The proud man stutters out, the break in his voice making his insult a great deal less insulting. "How dare you-"

Fury stabs me in the chest, piercing my heart. I glare at the sharp dressed man coldly and put a bullet in his head without a second thought. His blood splatters all over the ground. He, like his two bodyguards, crumples dead to the cobblestones. How dare I? How dare _he?_

I turn my attention towards the anxious man. He is staring at me with his hands raised up in the air, terror written plainly in his eyes. He begs and pleads with me. I move towards him, turning my gun on him and putting him in my sights. He starts praying under his breath. I aim and let out the shot.

The bullet narrowly misses him.

The man jerks at the loud bang, arms instinctively raising up to protect him. His eyes squeeze shut. Moments pass. When he realizes that he's still alive, that the bullet wasn't lodged in the gelatinous muscle hidden away in his skull, he pries his eyes open and stares at me in shock.

I walk over to him and snatch up the velvet bag in his hand. I hold the gun barrel to his temple, look him straight in the eyes, and make a demonstrative clicking sound with my tongue. "You're dead, understand?" I say.

The anxious man stares at me, trying to determine whether my words are a threat or a mercy. When he realizes that it's the later, he gulps and nods vigorously. "Yes!" He exclaims, his voice wavering. "Thank you so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you-"

Police sirens begin to prick at my ears, and I know I have to get moving. I lower my gun and shove him in the chest hard enough to make him gasp, the action cutting his utterances of gratitude short. "Go," I tell him. "And don't make me regret this,"

The man begins backing away, nodding still. "I won't," He stutters out. "I won't, I swear on my grave!"

The anxious man turns and runs, stumbling over an uneven cobblestone in his haste to take me up on my generous mercy. I snicker at his inelegance. There's something endearing about it, though, and I sincerely hope he'll use his spared existence to do something good, that I won't have to put him in his grave.

Shaking my head in amusement, I pull the velvet bag open in order to make sure that the three lives I just ended were worth the time spent and bullets used.

Something lunges out at me, glinting golden in the night.

I shriek. The Serpent begins to coil up my arm, twisting and turning as it crawls up over my skin. Its golden body is cold and smooth against me. It emits a constant hissing sound, its tongue snaking out to taste the air. I pry at it with my hands in an attempt to remove it, but all I succeed in doing is scratching my skin until it's raw and bleeding.

The Serpent slithers up over my shoulder, undulating over my prominent collarbones and then coiling up around my neck. It slips up to my ear, and I begin to hear voices in its hisses. It wraps its body around the tough cartilage that rims my ear, its tail coming to rest along the inside edge. The voices turn to screams and I clutch at my head as the wailing begins to echo inside my skull, shaking down my spine and creeping into my bone marrows.

There's a sudden piercing pain in my earlobe, and the screams subside.

I let out a long breath that I didn't realized I had been holding. Tentatively, I pull my hands away, slowly lowering them to my sides and letting them hang there. My whole body is shaking and trembling uncontrollably. I stare down at the ground, watching as the blood I've shed creeps over the cobblestones and seeps beneath my soles. I'm quaking in my boots, rooted to where I stand and unable to make myself move.

The police sirens have grown silent, and I suddenly realize that the reason they're gone is because the cars have already arrived, their drivers yelling at me with their guns at the ready. Their voices and threats are distant to me. Even though I hear them, their words do not properly register in my brain, their threats lacking both meaning and conviction.

There are whispers then, a chorus of ghosts murmuring in my ear. Some speak in ancient tongues lost to man, and others speak in languages that I do not recognize or understand, but the words do not matter because all the meanings and intents are the same. _Run, _they urge me. _Run, child, or marry Death._

"I'm already married to Death," I reply to the phantoms. The words bring me back to reality, and suddenly the commotion around me is too close and too real and too dangerous.

"Put the weapon down!"

I look up. The police have me surrounded on all sides, blocking all the streets and preventing an easy escape. Their guns are drawn and pointed at me. I see the crimson lights on their laser sights trained at my chest, marking me with dots that have the potential to become bullet holes. I curse internally, and make my decision.

I hold my hands up, pretending to surrender. Two officers break away from their positions, moving in towards me with their guns at the ready. I notice that their fingers aren't on their triggers and smirk.

When the officers are within reach, I snap into action, shooting both of them in their legs and then taking one of them hostage, holding his back against my chest and pressing the barrel of my gun against his head. The captain of the firing squad yells for everyone to hold their fire. My smirk grows. I begin to back away, walking towards a nearby building.

The second my spine makes contact with the stone wall, I shove my hostage away and begin to scramble up the building. I hear gunshots behind me. Bullets puncture the walls around me, sounding like a vicious and rather deadly rain storm. A bullet pierces my thigh, cutting through muscle. I cry out in pain and choke back tears, continuing my climb despite the throbbing in my leg. Warm blood begins to soak my jeans. The impact and the pain it causes makes me stumble in my climbing, my hands slipping and my legs stumbling. My backpack slips down my arm and then drops to the ground, landing on my recently released hostage. I probably would've laughed under normal circumstances.

The moment my boots meet the shingles, I begin to sprint. Every stride I take sends a sharp pain shooting down my leg, but I keep running because it's the only choice I have. The police, bound to uphold the law, obediently chase, running through the streets beneath me.

Sprinting is much more tiresome and exhausting than it normally is. Just a couple minutes into my escape, I'm struggling to catch my breath and my leg muscles are burning with exertion. I begin to grow dizzy and lightheaded, but I force myself to keep moving.

After running for several minutes, I find myself standing on the roof of the Ponte Vecchio - one of the bridges that stretches across the Arno River. Police officers storm onto the bridge, their weapons drawn. Shopkeepers and their customers flee the scene, rushing into the city and flooding the streets like the river that cuts through the town. I hear the police yell at me, demanding that I get down.

I limp across the roof, grimacing in pain, and look over the edge, my toes sitting precariously close to where the shingles meet open air. I look down into the river, and am unsurprised to see that the water is churning. The river is angry tonight, the currents twisting and turning beneath the surface of the water with a cold, bitter rage.

I cast my gaze down at the wound in my leg. Crimson red blood has stained my denim jeans, soaking through the dark blue material all the way down to my knees. I look back down into the river, and recall what I had told the whispering phantoms earlier - _I'm already married to Death._

I take a deep breath and leap over the edge.

* * *

><p>The water greets me with teeth as sharp and cold as ice, the river biting into my skin. The current sends me turning head over heels, and I become disoriented. I begin to sink into the darkness. I struggle out of my jacket and kick my feet free of my boots, casting it all away to the current. I try to determine which way leads to the surface, but the darkness is all around me, pressing down on my lungs and gripping onto my skull with hands like iron.<p>

Air. I need air, but no matter how much I struggle and search, I cannot reach it and my lungs begin to collapse in on themselves. My heart beats wildly in my chest. I can hear it echoing in my ears.

Arms wrap around me and tug me through the water, pulling me through the horrendous current. They lead me to the surface. I gasp and gasp, repeatedly filling my lungs with the air that they've been dying for. The arms tug me to shore. I scramble up onto the cobblestone street, and then collapse onto the ground, unable to bear the burden of my own weight any longer.

A man leans over me, asking me questions. His voice is distant to my ears, and nothing he says sticks in my brain. He looks like someone I know. His golden eyes and his smooth, tanned skin and the scar on his lips are all known to me, but I cannot place why.

"I think I know you," I choke out.


End file.
